


The Silver Branch

by sassafrasx



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, M/M, Pining, Post 5X13, Sidhe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:26:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassafrasx/pseuds/sassafrasx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is not really what Arthur expected. For one, there's a lot more questing and magic and responsibility than he had been lead to believe. Not to mention that death seems to be a relative term.</p>
<p>Then again, apparently there are still many secrets about himself left to uncover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silver Branch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kathyh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathyh/gifts).



> This story is set in canon through the series finale with the only change being that Arthur never married Gwen, or anyone else for that matter. While she became a close friend and trusted adviser, they never rekindled their romance.
> 
> The mythology I used in writing this is an amalgam of many different things I came across while researching Avalon and the Sidhe, among others. Although a majority of this story is certainly based in Celtic mythology, the way I put it together and forced it to fit with canon and then filled in the gaps has resulted in something entirely different.
> 
> To my lovely glompee: I took your additional prompt and ran with it. And kept running and never really stopped. I've no idea exactly what you had in mind, but I hope you enjoy the direction I took your prompt regardless. It was so much fun to write!
> 
> Also, many, many thanks to the mods! This fest has been wonderful to participate in.

I

Death is not really what Arthur expected; he’s lying somewhere cold and wet and gritty, and the sky and trees above look rather more like the ones in Camelot than he would have imagined.

“That’s probably because you aren’t, strictly speaking, _dead_ , sire,” a soft voice tells him and Arthur jerks, rolling in confusion.

Did he say that aloud? He doesn’t think he did. And if he isn’t dead, where exactly is he?

Turning his head he finds a petite woman with dark hair and expressive eyes. The wispy folds of her pale dress are translucent and sandy where she is knelt along the bank, but she doesn’t seem to mind. With a keen look and a small smile she watches him and continues, “Yes, you were speaking aloud. Moving between the realms can be a bit… _disorienting_ at first. Anyway, to answer your question, you are now in Avalon.”

“And who are you?” Ah, good, he can hear himself again finally, although his voice sounds scratchy and hoarse even to his own ears. As more awareness comes back to him he groans with the way every tiny movement aches, sending spasms throughout his entire body.

“The Lady of the Lake, of course,” she says matter of factly, as if that not only means something but should be perfectly obvious. “Though in your world I was once known as Freya. When I died, Merlin cast me into Avalon and made me the protector of this water, the weakest point between the mortal and immortal realms. But I’m not sure he ever realised what he’d done.”

Arthur frowns at the wistful quirk of her lips and then grimaces more since even that much hurts to move. Gods above, _death should not be this bloody painful_. From the little of his arm he can see, he’s wearing the same gloves and armour as he was at Camlann. _Camlann_ … His heart drops bitterly at the memory. And now he apparently gets to spend the rest of his afterlife writhing in pain on some beach with a strange girl chattering at him, just like Merlin— He throws the thought away viciously. This must be some form of eternal punishment; maybe an eagle will swoop down to eat his innards day after day, whilst he’s paralysed in agony. He’d always enjoyed that story as a child.

Arthur doesn’t really doubt he’s deserving of the same fate. So many mistakes.

And Merlin, gods. _Merlin_. Merely thinking about him sets his head pounding mercilessly, a steady thump, thump in his skull that makes him think his brains might start oozing out of his ears. A goddamn sorcerer all along. Emrys himself, the _absolute idiot_.

Moaning and praying that he’ll not end up in a pool of his own vomit, Arthur pushes aside all thoughts of his— his— well, whatever he is. _Him_. Everything hurts too much for him to deal with at the moment.

Eyes closed and teeth gritted, he hisses at the girl, whatever her bloody name is, “Avalon is a myth. Clearly this is some sort of hell and you’ve been sent to torture me with your inanity while I lie here in excruciating pain.”

She chuckles softly. “It is quite a wound you have there and the healing process can be terribly awful, but don’t worry, it’ll soon pass and you’ll be good as new.”

“Healing process?” Arthur asks dubiously, eyes slitting open to glare at her. This girl must be touched, because there is no way _that_ feeling has anything to do with healing.

“Yes, healing. I can see why he always called you a prat.”

Outright glaring now, Arthur splutters. _How dare she._

Unfortunately he must not be his normal, formidable self, indisposed as he is, because she only grins wider in response. “What, only Merlin allowed to call you that? I’ve been watching over you both, you know, so don’t pretend you didn’t allow him to.”

Harrumphing, Arthur firmly shuts his eyes again and decides to ignore her until she goes away.

As she hums quietly beside him, contented, he begins to doubt the likelihood of that particular outcome. He has failed Camelot, made the same mistakes as his father, and now he must be doomed to never again experience peace and solitude. Not that Merlin had ever given him much of either, but he's gone now and no matter the anger Arthur still feels at his lies, he can't help but think that no one else could ever fill the gap that he left behind.

For better or worse, Merlin is the only idiotic, improper, loud, and utterly clumsy manservant he has ever wanted. He's not entirely sure what that says about him, the fondness he's never been able to rid himself of for someone so daft. Of course, even Arthur had no idea of the true depths of Merlin's abilities.

The pain suddenly becomes excruciating, his entire body searing in a blaze of heat so strong that he starts to feel like one raw, exposed lump of nerves, no connection to the world, no consciousness other than pain.

"Easy there, shhh. Easy. It's almost done now, always the worst right before it's over." He can hear her, knows she's there murmuring soothing things to him, but it's too far away to be of any consolation. The real torture has apparently begun.

And then as abruptly as it started, the pain vanishes, leaving him numbly cool in its wake. He notices her hands held out over him, soft, golden tendrils swaying gently over his body, finally dissipating into the ether.

"You're a witch," he says, but there's no real bite to it, the accusation lacking any actual care on his part. The world is full of witches and warlocks, no matter what anyone else might say or do about it. He would know, especially now.

Laughing a bit, she shrugs. "I have magic, if that's what you mean. I had a little in the mortal world as well, but not much. Everyone's magic is stronger here though. Even yours, King Arthur."

When he scowls, heaving himself up into a sitting position, she only raises her eyebrows. "You can try to deny the truth all you want. You were born of magic and there will always be magic in your veins, you only have to reach for it. In this realm, I think you'll find you can do anything you set your mind to."

"And why would I want to use magic? What use is it to me?" Looking down at himself, he is happy to see whole, blemish-free skin lacking even a scar. His clothing and armour, however, are not so lucky, still rent open and covered in blood, and he sighs, wrinkling his nose in distaste. What warrior can fight with holes in their armour, he'd like to know.

Although, what fighting — what _wars_ are there in the afterlife? He feels remarkably the same as he did when he was alive; does that mean they are all condemned to battle constantly against tyrants and outlaws?

Maybe by some miracle he did make it into paradise.

Maybe for once he can put his sword down and rest.

"For all our sakes, I hope you learn quickly. Avalon is a tricky place for those without magic, and there isn't much time. Come here, let me fix your clothes," she says, pulling him over and yanking at him, murmuring things over them until even his armour is as gleaming and new as the day it was gifted to him.

That might explain a lot about Merlin's uncanny ability to make his mail shine under even the worst of circumstances. Idiot.

“I am not in Avalon. That doesn’t even make sense—”

Abruptly, she hushes him, scanning the area warily. “Twilight is coming and the Sidhe will ride. We must get you somewhere safe.”

For the first time Arthur truly takes stock of his surroundings, confused by the strange girl with stranger words beside him. While the trees and the sky had seemed familiar when he’d first awoken, upon more consideration he notices how very different the world around him actually is: the grasses along the marshy bank appear to be turned towards them and swaying not with the breeze, but with some sort of conscious curiosity, and the size of everything is not quite right, somehow, with some plants unnaturally elongated and others in miniature and none of them as he remembers.

He feels slightly queasy and like he must have fallen down a long, dark hole to end up in a place so bizarre and disorienting. Nothing is right and he can’t figure out how he fits in this queer realm, let alone consider the possibility that this is where he will spend the rest of time.

Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he prays for some sense of normality to return to him. As he opens them he has to admit to himself that that will probably never happen again.

_His own, personal hell, that’s what this is_ , he thinks to himself bitterly while eying a reed that has bent close to him and— and, is _sniffing_ him?

Gods, definitely hell.

Breathing deeply in and out and ignoring the lurch in his stomach, he stands up and follows the girl — _Freya, yes, that’s her name_ — as she motions him along quietly around the sandy embankment and into a deep cavern hidden on the other side.

With a careless flick of her hand a blazing fire is lit and she shoves him onto a bed of warm furs.

Arthur resigns himself to the fact that he is trapped in a world of magic, as terrible a fate as that may be, and most certainly does not think about the irony that he is trapped here without Merlin, the one person whose magic he might actually trust.

After he has beat him around the head a few— _many_ times for the years and years of lies, of course. (And, he imagines, after that, the hours of quiet confusion and hurt that Merlin will have to explain the _why_ of so many of his actions. Why would he have ever advised Arthur to stand against the Disir and magic? _It doesn’t make any goddamn sense_. And that’s the part he thinks will keep him up at night, now that he is no longer on his deathbed and desperate to make amends with the best friend he has ever had.)

Primly sitting down beside him, in spite of the soiled mess of her skirts which she still has yet to notice, Freya sighs and bites her lip.

“I know this is a lot for you to take in right now and that this all must seem so very, very strange, but I speak frankly when I say that there is not much time.” Grabbing his hand insistently, she continues, “I have heard the whisperings and the Sidhe have plans for you, Arthur Pendragon, and they must be stopped, no matter what the cost. You don’t understand it now, but you are more powerful and more important than you could ever have imagined. If the Sidhe are able to use you as they want, they will all be able to cross over into the mortal realm for as long as they need to conquer the earth. And they can and they will if given the chance. The amount of destruction and death they could reign is truly terrifying to imagine…”

She drifts off for a bit, shuddering and shaking her head, still squeezing his hand.

“But you can stop them. Or, well, you can find the bridge between the worlds before them and bring back Merlin. Only the two of you together are strong enough to stand against the full might of the Sidhe.”

Arthur blinks. And blinks some more.

He can feel his head begin to throb again, a deep ache clearly brought on by his impending insanity.

“A race of magical, mythical beings wants to use _me_ to conquer all of humanity?”

“Yes, precisely.” She smiles. “You can see why it’s so important you begin as soon as possible.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he growls, “I don’t see _anything_. This is madness! You are positively cracked in the head.”

When she turns her huge, pleading eyes on him, he decides he hates her. And everything about this hell he’s stuck in.

“No, absolutely not, nothing about this remotely makes any sense whatsoever, and I don’t know how you expect me to believe any of this, let alone be able to do anything about it at all.”

Heaving an impatient sigh, she says, “Does anything about this world make sense to you? I wish I had the time to calmly sit with you until you can wrap your mind around it, but I simply don’t. You are going to have to leave whatever good sense you think you have behind, King Arthur, if you hope to save Albion.”

“And how, pray tell, am I supposed to save all of Albion now that I’m dead?”

She purses her lips and gives him a look. “As I said before, you cannot die, not truly. That is how you came to be in Avalon and not as a wraithe trapped beyond the Veil by the Cailleach. You are not some spirit separated from his corporeal body, but flesh and blood in the land of the immortals. There was a time when we could travel easily from Avalon and back, but Gwyn ap Nudd has not been seen for many, many years and he has hidden the gateway away. You must find that gateway before the Sidhe and assure that they can never cross, not easily.”

This being eternal hell is quickly garnering more points in its favour as far as Arthur is concerned. Riddles upon riddles of the magical peoples and he is supposed to sort it all. Lovely.

Rubbing his forehead, he grumbles, "Even if I choose to accept that I'm in Avalon, which I don't" — he glares pointedly — "I fail to see how I am going to be able to find this gateway back to the mortal world which even the Sidhe cannot locate. And for that matter, what in the name of all that is holy is this supposed gateway?"

"It _is_ Avalon, now you're just being stubborn. It's very unbecoming." She sniffs and he swears he can hear her muttering something about Merlin putting up with him but he graciously chooses to ignore it. Because he is a king and above such petty bickering, of course. "Yes, the gateway is hidden, from the Sidhe as well as everyone else, but there are those who may know more than I can tell you and might choose to help you on your journey. As for the gateway itself, you must find the Silver Branch. You are familiar with it, yes?"

Arthur scoffs and wrinkles his nose at her. "That's an old wives' tale of magic apples and rabbit holes and fantastical worlds of endless summer that people tell around the campfire at midwinter to give themselves hope. Maybe one day they too will find a sterling branch buried deep within the snow.”

Ignoring the bitter thoughts in the back of his mind about how Merlin would probably already have learned the ins-and-outs of this place and cajoled him into action with an impish smile, he pulls the soft fur pelts up around his neck and burrows deeper into his nest. The cave is small and pleasantly mild, but he takes comfort in the unbelievable softness against his face while he watches the light flicker unnaturally against the slick walls.

Beside him Freya closes her eyes and breathes deeply in and out, hands curled tightly in the haphazard rumples of her thin dress. “I’m so sorry. About everything, truly, but there simply isn’t any time.”

_Everything_. Gods. The list of all that could go on for ages and never end. The cutting edge of his thoughts about Merlin only hides the dull, vast ache he feels when thinking of his people. Of Camelot. His only consolation is that he knows Morgana cannot attack anyone ever again. Gwen and Leon will rule well together, he knows, but some buried and unacknowledged part of him wants to roar that it is his responsibility to protect those hallowed walls and every spark of life which they hold.

No more. None of it will be his ever again.

Idly he hums a numb acknowledgement.

“I swear to you, your Majesty, that I speak the truth. If you do not find the Silver Branch before the Sidhe, they will use it to control you and conquer all of Albion. If you want to save Camelot, you must beat them.”

He folds his arms tighter around himself and says pointedly, “And why should I trust you?”

Frowning at him, she gives a tight nod. “Fair point. Let me show you who I am, who I really am and you can be the judge.”

Protest already forming on his lips, she cuts him off, grabbing his hands and staring into his eyes, until he all he can see are her dark pupils, and it feels like falling.

Memories assail him almost faster than he is able to process, so much fear and blood and pain that he tries to shrink back, but he’s distantly aware of her fingernails gripping into his arms hard enough to draw blood.

He sees her and her curse.

He sees Merlin.

And then he sees her die by his sword, sorrow and relief tightening his heart along with hers.

When it’s finally over he stares at his shaking hands, watching thin rivulets of blood draw to the surface in deep crescents on his forearms.

“I— I killed you. How can you—? I’m so sorry, I didn’t know,” he whispers.

She’s gives him a sad smile back, eyes flashing briefly as yellow light covers his small wounds.

“I have had a long time to forgive you, Arthur Pendragon. Yes, you killed me for the things you didn't understand. But I have watched your reign, seen you forgive Merlin, and for that I am willing to believe in the whispers I have heard of your destiny. You still have much to do, my Lord. You were always meant to return, but it can’t be because of the Sidhe.”

While the larger, more sane part of himself screams not to believe her, that her magic is only a trick, he does anyway. He remembers how upset Merlin had been and the truth of it all settles firmly in his belly like an immovable stone.

She died at his hand and he knows he can trust her — and now that means he must face down an immortal race of magically powerful beings.

Without Merlin. At least until he can drag him here.

He will do this for her, believe in her, and maybe somehow that can atone for his wrongs against her, and so many others. Wrongs he desperately wishes he had understood at the time.

—

The next morning — he thinks, possibly anyway — he finds himself sitting on the prow of a boat gliding gently through the marsh to his first destination.

He has a feeling a lot of ‘finding himself’ in impossible situations is going to keep happening for the foreseeable future.

Trying to remember all the advice she had given, he clenches and unclenches his fists.

_“The Nine Sisters, the nine goddesses of Avalon, rule here with Gwyn ap Nudd as their king. He has grown weary and despondent, hiding himself and the Silver Branch along with him. The sisters may help you, but they are as fickle and capricious as any gods can be...”_

_“Beware of any food and drink, it can lure you in and make you content, make you forget all your cares. Everything. The Sidhe won’t dare to harm you, not when they have plans to use you in Albion, so they will try to bring you in and make you happy. Make you lose complete track of time, which you will if you give in…”_

_"The Sidhe are most powerful at dawn and dusk, especially during Beltane and Samhain, when the line between the worlds begins to blur _…"__

_“Time passes here much differently than it does in Albion, seemingly moving backwards and forwards at random. Just keep moving forward and don’t stop until you have the branch.”_

This is not the first time Arthur has been on a strange and impossible quest, but everything about this place sends him reeling in confusion.

There are little twinkling lights flickering all around him as Freya leads the boat through the water, her dress and hair billowing behind her like a glittering halo as she swims through the lake.

It’s beautiful. Everything about this place is beautiful. Despite how much he wants to go home, even he can admit to the appeal of such a place.

Reaching out to one of the glowing lights, he nearly lunges out of the boat in shock as it turns and _hisses_ at him, its hideous blue face suddenly visible. Gods, it’s the _Sidhe_. He’d heard that they could change size and could be both stunning and terrifying to behold, depending on which shape they choose to take, but seeing it in the flesh sends a shudder through his body.

He can never let these creatures touch the land of Albion.

Seeing all this magic around him, Arthur wishes Merlin were here. He’d give anything for even a thinly-veiled insult and laughing blue eyes right now.

But he doesn’t want to think of Merlin, the things he’s seen.

The images come anyway, of course, and while knowing that all the water here can allow him to watch anyone in Albion should be a comfort, he can’t help the tight knot that forms in his throat at seeing Merlin’s despair after his death.

Despair that lasted for centuries, because of course the water doesn’t allow him to see someone at the same moment, but at any moment in the future as well.

And there had been so many moments full of sad eyes and a long, lonely vigil waiting for him to return.

Everything for him.

It’s terrible.

Freya had tried to console him, holding his hand and gentling him like she would a scared colt, whispering about how once he has the branch he can step from Avalon into Albion at any time he chooses. Strange things about how the two worlds coexist at once, imposed upon the other but separated, and the difference in the passage of time.

It hadn’t mattered in the light of Merlin’s pain.

At least she had returned Excalibur to him, its weight a blessed comfort at his side.

When he’d tried to get answers about her insistence that he has great powers, he’d gotten nothing but a simple, “That's a story buried in the blood of your ancestors,” and, “Others know more than me, I only hear the whispers of everything.” _  
_

_The blood of his ancestors_ — Is everyone in this land going to speak constantly in bloody riddles? He may trust her, but he _will_ strangle her if has to put up with anymore equivocation.

Grumbling to himself about magic users and how he can’t decide if Merlin or Freya should be strangled first, he watches the crest of beach come into view and sees the gleaming marble temple where Moronoe resides high above. The first stop Freya has suggested.

He swallows and clenches his hands with resolve.

As Freya’s head rises out of the water, he gives her a pained smile. “Are you sure you can’t come with me?”

She smiles softly in return. “No, I am the Lady of the Lake and I cannot leave it, I am sorry. But there is one last thing I can give you. Avalon is the land of apples, the land of youth, the land eternal. I could shower you in the greatest riches and it would buy you nothing. But I offer you the most valuable thing of all, a currency here more precious than any other, my loyalty and my belief." She gently bends Arthur over the water and kisses his brow. "Be well and good luck, King Arthur."

And with that he is out of the boat, facing a field of swaying, smiling foxgloves and primroses and daffodils, with Freya quirking her lips encouragingly and disappearing back into the water.

Bugger.

 

II

 

So he goes. He walks through the field of flowers which seem to bow to him as he passes by and heads into the densely packed forest, full of vines and apple trees heavily laden with the most sweet-smelling fruit.

He can see how so many could be led astray.

Ignoring it all, he keeps moving, stalking along the path with Excalibur by his side, determined to face whatever he comes across, no matter how alien it might be. Nor how many eyes he can feel following him, eerie and unseen.

Around the bend he finds a huge stag and wishes he had his bow with him; he has never seen a more magnificent creature. But then the stag stares at him, almost considering, before inclining his white, gleaming antlers slightly and Arthur decides that he has no interest in ever hunting here.

There's no sport in hunting animals which are intelligent enough to judge you and determine your worth.

He hates this world.

Eventually he finds himself climbing a steep hill and he can see the pale, shining building at the top, and doesn't allow himself to pause, continuing on to whatever his fate may be. The immortals of this world may think this the most beautiful, perfect place imaginable, but nothing will ever compare to Camelot for him and he only wants to find the way home.

And then to grab Merlin from whatever hut he has hidden himself in and give him a good wallop on the head. The thought of his best friend, sorcerer or not, living in sorrow whilst he's stuck in this hellhole… Well, it's simply unacceptable.

At the top, he makes his way between the shining marble columns and into a bright, airy room with no roof and many windows, sunlight slanting in from all directions. From behind him there comes light laughter and a silky voice.

"Ah, the great King Arthur has finally arrived. Our blood has returned! We've been waiting for so very long," says the most stunning woman he has ever seen, all golden hair and a radiance that exudes from every inch of her skin. Flouncing by him in priceless, intricately-patterned silks, she smirks and drapes herself across the only chair in the room, on a raised dais at the end that captures the sun's rays perfectly.

"What do you mean, your blood?" he asks warily.

"Oh, but you still don't know who you truly are, do you, littlest one?" Propping her head in her hand, she dangles her legs over the other side of the chair as if she hasn't a care in the world, except to be entertained. As if this is somehow amusing and Arthur feels his blood boil.

He snaps, "I know exactly who I am. I am King Arthur of Camelot and I am on a quest to find the Silver Branch. Certainly you would not have that power fall in the hands of the Sidhe?"

Her laughter is sweet and brightens the room and he thinks he could get lost in it, in her, and he bites the inside of his cheek, refusing to let go of his anger. Bloody goddesses, just tricks of light and magic.

"It would be a shame, I suppose, if the Sidhe were allowed to trample all over the mortal realm. And then your golden rule would never come to pass, yes. But." She pauses, pursing her lips. "Prophecies are a troublesome thing. We always still have a choice and I don't know if I want to choose you, no matter how pretty you are. Such a pretty one, such fine bone structure and golden hair, how anyone could have thought you were only some mortal king… People are so stupid sometimes."

Before he can break in, irritated, she continues with a sigh, "I suppose your accomplishments, as human and boring as they were, are not to be dismissed. Ruling does suit you and you looked so kingly with your crown. I cannot deny you have the potential to lead us well. And it would be nice to hunt again. It's been so long since Gwyn ap Nudd has called the Hunt, do promise you'll lead it once again."

He ignores the unsettling thought of the stag on the road and quickly agrees. Anything that will get her to cooperate. "I've always loved hunting."

Unfooled, she gazes at him coyly, with a gleam in her eyes. "Oh, Arthur Pendragon, you've never been on a hunt like this, I can assure you."

Finally, she sits upright and waves her hand blithely. "You have much to learn, King Arthur, and only time will tell if you succeed. Whatever the outcome, I shall most enjoy watching. I can't remember the last time anything this exciting happened in Avalon. As for what you seek, my sister, Mazoe might be able to help. She was always so much closer to him than I. Dreadfully uninteresting, the both of them, I should warn you. No one can compare to me, of course."

"I can't imagine so, my Lady," he forces out with a tight, fake smile, wishing fervently to be away from here, but unwilling to antagonise whatever potential allies he can find in this place.

She hums. "If you continue along the path to the west you will come across a fork and you must go to the right and follow it all the way to the end. She lives there, in a little house, but don't be fooled by her; she's much more cunning and knows more than she will ever let on. I do hope you remember me well and never say I didn't help you." Drawing a lyre out of nowhere, she continues, "But let me play for you before you go, I've been told I make the most beautiful music to ever be heard."

"I'm sure it's as beautiful as you say, my Lady, but I must beg off and be on my way. Time is of the utmost importance."

She begins anyway and the sound is so sweet in his ear he stops in mid-pivot, enthralled. The music caresses him, wraps around his body like a lover, and he thinks, _Well, only one song couldn't hurt_ , and nearly begins to turn back. But then he remembers the sorrow on Merlin's face and he grits his teeth and forces himself to finish turning, tinkling laughter following him until he has left her marble temple far, far behind.

—

As he wanders down the path she pointed out to him, he admires the feel of the sun stretched across him, warming him pleasantly to the core, but not enough to make him hot or uncomfortable. If it weren't for the way every plant and tree, not to mention the animals, seem to follow his movements curiously, not to mention the haunting image of the Sidhe in his mind, he might actually be able to enjoy himself. It would be a great day for a spar.

He does have to wonder, though, that if every day is so perfect and beautiful if anyone can truly continue to appreciate it. And he would probably feel guilty for planning to drag Merlin here, to be with him in this so-called paradise, if it weren't for seeing him mourn Arthur's death — and if there is anything worse than watching your loved ones in pain over you, he would like to know.

So he keeps going, undeterred and confident, despite how utterly unbalanced and out of his depth he actually feels.

He can practically hear Merlin behind him, where he ought to be, muttering as usual, _You would think the solution is to feign you have any idea what you're doing and wave your sword about and whack things, you great cabbage head_.

But Merlin's not here, so he can raise his chin and blunder on and pretend he's not lost without Merlin's bumbling along beside him.

After a few minutes (hours, days? how will he ever be sure again?) he stumbles upon a large, festive gathering of unnaturally beautiful — as with everything else in this realm — people, laughing and dancing together around a maypole. Off to the side, a whole troupe is playing a joyous tune and everything about the scene is so splendid and simple and overwhelmingly disconcerting that Arthur has to stop and frown.

It truly is like all those tales he heard the men whisper around the campfire when they thought he wasn't listening. It's amazing how much people used to assume he never heard.

Of course, that only makes Merlin's ability to keep his secret all those years all the more unbelievable.

Eventually the revelers catch sight of him and wave gaily, a tall man with a large grin running over to grab his hand and drag him into the thick of it.

He protests profusely, he swears he does, but soon he finds himself with a skin of wine laughing along with the rest, although he can't quite determine what he's laughing at or why or really anything but the thump of the beat and the dizzying swish of skirts around him. There are over-sweet apples that dribble juice all over him as he eats them and large hunks of the most tempting venison to go along with it.

As the same man who pulled him over sidles closer to him, Arthur beams for no particular reason, except maybe that he reminds him of someone. There’s just something about the shape of his smile and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Despite the staggering headiness of it all, he tugs on that thought and picks at it, unraveling his cloudiness piece by piece until he realises with terrible certainty that the man reminds him of Merlin and how could he have ever not been able to remember Merlin. How, it doesn't make any sense…

And he finally notices that the sun is in a completely different position in the sky and he is much farther from the path than he had thought and, trembling slightly, he thrusts what's left of the wine back at the man beside him and says quickly, "I'm so sorry, I must go, I can't believe I've forgotten. It's very important that I continue on my quest."

But as he tries to spin around and get away, the man is suddenly there, looming over him, and his smile that had seemed so friendly before has many more teeth than he had first thought. "No, you _mustn't_ leave. The dance has only just begun and you will miss the best part."

Shaking his head emphatically, Arthur stands as tall as he can and forces himself not to be drawn in again no matter what. "I'm afraid I can't. Please accept my apologies."

"No, you don't understand. We will not let you leave," he growls back, eyes flaring gold.

So Arthur grabs Excalibur and thrusts it in his face, desperately calling forth whatever power Freya swears he has, and his voice booms, " _I am leaving_."

The grass flattens in its wake and Arthur barely has time to marvel shakily that he did that somehow, before the gorgeous creatures in front of him have changed, cruel, blue faces shrieking in rage, their ear-splitting howls and ugly, misshapen torsos rattling his bones.

Striking out blindly, he feels Excalibur connect with a few of them and he dashes towards the path, never more happy to see the midday sun rise as he runs at full speed for the tree line.

Behind him he can still hear a terrible cacophony, and a last, “ _We will have you, Arthur Pendragon. You are ours_ ,” and then they are finally, blessedly, out of range.

—

He travels longer, the list of bizarre, incomprehensible things he's witnessed growing with every hour.

At least, he thinks it's been hours, it might have been days. Freya said he would never really tire in Avalon and as far as he can tell, the sun seems to jump around randomly, appearing in whatever part of the sky must suit it at the moment, and it never fully sets.

It puts his teeth on edge and doesn't help at all with the lingering swirl of motion in his head from the Sidhe wine.

Then again, seeing a horde of very naked fairies chasing a giant rabbit (actually, giant is not the appropriate word for it; Percy is giant, that rabbit was larger than a tree) and giggling, of all things, does nothing to make it any better.

What is wrong with these people— creatures? Crazed, magical beings? He decides to go with the latter as the most appropriate considering the circumstances.

If he brings Merlin back here, does that mean he'll go insane too? Start running around as naked as the day he was born, petting unicorns and swooning at them?

His mind stops at the naked portion of that thought rather more than it should and he firmly ceases thinking about it.

Except he doesn't. At all. Not when there are wrists and broad, sloping shoulders and slim hips to keep him occupied.

It's all the fairies fault. Their insanity is clearly rubbing off.

At some point, he does make his way down the right fork and finds himself in front of a house. A most ordinary house, all things being equal. There's a chimney merrily releasing smoke into the air and the smell of a simple, home-cooked supper and he has to admit to being a trifle confused.

He's not sure he trusts a goddess who chooses something so ordinary. It feels like a trick.

As he makes his way to the door, an older woman, still as beautiful as all the peoples of this realm, but more dignified and unafraid to show her age, ambles around the corner and widens her eyes at the sight of him.

"Oh, I had heard that the Once and Future King has come, but I did not expect to find you in front of my door so soon! Come, come, let me show you in," she says with a motherly smile, silver hair framing the small dimples around her mouth.

Still having absolutely no idea what to make of her, he nods graciously and follows her in. It's not like he has much of a choice either way. He can only hope that she can actually help him.

"Thank you, my Lady," he murmurs as she hands him a cup of mead and a hunk of warm bread, placing him in a chair in front of the fire.

"It's my pleasure, I can assure you. It's not every day that the prophesied ruler of Avalon finally turns up after all these centuries."

Arthur frowns. "Ruler of Avalon?"

"Ah, you still don't understand who you are, do you? What you mean to the world." Humming, she considers him with dark eyes. "In the normal course of things, there would be much more time for your destiny to reveal itself to you, slowly and following the natural order. But the Sidhe have set in motion things they should not have. It may be their downfall. Or the mortal world's. I suppose we shall see."

"So you know why I am here, the artifact that I seek. Can you help me?"

Laughing, she smirks at him. "Still so much to learn, practically a baby in this land. But, yes, I can help you. That doesn't mean I will. What care have I about the mortal world or the Sidhe and their silly plans? Every day magic fades from that realm and we grow farther and farther apart. Why not let the Sidhe have it?"

Arthur feels his stomach coil tight, fury rising through him. "These are people's lives you're talking about! How can anyone sit back and watch the Sidhe destroy all of Albion and not want to do anything about it? What kind of goddess's are you that would turn from the world?"

"As I said, Albion is in the mortal realm; Avalon is not. You might be destined to lead us someday, but destiny is a many changing thing and there are many paths that can lead us there. I see no reason to put so much power in the hands of one so young, so unready for the task of ruling Avalon," she says, with an air of finality.

Growling, he says, "I'm not looking to rule Avalon, I only want to stop the Sidhe from whatever it is they have planned."

She shakes her head. "That is where you are wrong. The branch you seek is only for the ruler of Avalon, no one else, and if you take it from Gwyn ap Nudd, you will be declaring yourself the King of the Gods. No, I cannot fathom it. Not when you are so young. It's not the right time at all."

"So you would have that power fall into the hands of the Sidhe! When they grow bored of Albion, what do you think they'll do with Avalon?" he exclaims, frustration simmering under his skin.

All he gets is a small pout of her dainty mouth. "If the Sidhe truly decide to be so stupid, we will deal with them."

He slams his hand against his chair, knocking over the mead and sending it spraying onto her hearth. "You cannot be serious. The Sidhe will find a way, you know they will, and you would leave the world impotent against them, preferring to wait passively and see! If you have such little care for mortals, why do you even live in this cute, little house, playing up the role of grandmother, with your charming table and oven-fresh bread? Why imitate humans if you find them so worthless?"

Glaring at him, her calm, unruffled demeanor finally broken, she hisses, "Watch yourself, boy. If you hope to survive here — and simply because your immortal doesn't mean you can't die, only that you won't age or pass from illness — you better learn to respect your elders. You know nothing."

"How the hell am I supposed to be immortal anyway? Everyone keeps saying that, but last I checked, I was king of a very human, and very not-magical kingdom!"

As quick as she was to anger, the lines of her face smooth out and she laughs mockingly at him. "Yes, there may be some of the blood of the dragons in your father's ancestors, but it is not from his line that your power comes. That answer lies with your mother, for she was born here, just as surely as you were born in Camelot. A changeling cut off from us when Gwyn ap Nudd withdrew."

Arthur reels back as if he's been slapped. His mother— but that doesn't even make _sense_.

"I will say no more, I am old and tired and have no desire to speak to you any longer. You will simply have to continue elsewhere on your quest."

"Believe me, as far as the desire to speak, the feeling is most assuredly mutual." The _you old hag_ is left unsaid. No matter how much he would love to insult her, she is an old goddess and she is right when she says he has no idea what he's doing.

But it doesn't matter. Someone has to protect the people.

Stomping towards the door, he slams it open and refuses to acknowledge that she follows, watching his every movement.

"My well is strong, if you'd like to gaze upon its surface before you leave. Whatever comfort you may find in seeing Emrys is all I can offer you."

And he knows he shouldn't. He should turn away and never look back. She clearly cannot be trusted.

But the thought of Merlin really is too much to bear. So he goes up to the pool and drops to his knees, despite his better judgement.

This time he sees him with long, curling hair and a bow knotted at his nape, the impossibly tall, funny hat he’s wearing confusing and unfitting. There’s still a hint of forlornness in the wrinkles around his eyes, but he’s smiling softly at the man across from him, blond and confident with a gleaming stick he stabs into the ground with each step.

When the other man smoothes a finger along Merlin’s cheek, Arthur realises with a jolt that they are both very much alone on a quiet night.

And Arthur _knows_ , he does, that Merlin has been living without him for so long and he cannot begrudge him whatever comfort and happiness he finds along the way, but. _But_. He also cannot ignore the thick taste of regret sliding suffocatingly across his tongue.

As Merlin curls his long, elegant fingers around his jaw and opens up with a quiet sigh, Arthur _wants_ with more intensity than he has ever felt before.

He didn’t know he could want, could have had, this. Him. The beautiful, impossible man that had always been right in front of him, hidden behind his grumbling and cheek, never far from Arthur’s thoughts but thoroughly off-limits. Or so he’d thought.

He hadn’t _known_.

Watching the man peel back every layer, press mouth and fingers to each freshly revealed sliver of skin, unravels Arthur until he becomes so immersed he swears he can feel coarse hair over smooth, pale flesh and he tunnels deeper and deeper, hoping never to wake from the way Merlin’s leg curves over his hip and his pleading whimpers and pants.

He can taste the heavily-spiced, thick, smoky air of the wood-panelled room and the glide of Merlin’s full lips cutting through it all, fresher and headier than anything he’s ever savoured, against his own.

Spread out below him Merlin arches and coils, eyes flashing and body throbbing in the dim lighting as Arthur’s name is punched out of his gut with a moan.

And something is dragging him up, dragging him back, and Arthur bucks and kicks out, panic rising in his chest.

He only wants a little longer. Just long enough to hold Merlin, to wrap himself around his lanky body and bury his nose in the tender spot behind his ear, now that he finally has a chance. Or even just a kiss goodbye.

But he can’t breathe no matter how much his lungs heave and he wrenches his head back, gasping for air as water drips through his hair and down his face, gagging on lungfuls of it.

He can hear the laughter behind him.

“My, my, someone was eager to reach through to the mortal realm. You might want to get a move on though; you were under there for rather a long time. It would be such a terrible shame if you were never able to make it to your dear, sweet Emrys.”

Stumbling to his feet, still drenched, he seriously considers reaching for Excalibur and trying to run her through and he can already feel how satisfying that death would be, the blood lust screaming out to him inside his chest.

But Merlin is waiting and he can’t take any chances. The beginnings of his supposed power are thrumming through him, have been since his flight from the Sidhe, but he just doesn’t know enough.

Yet.

He will remember Mazoe and it will not be well.

—

The rage at the impotence he feels in this land continues on with him, sodden and downtrodden as he is. How is he ever supposed to save anything in this goddess riddled world? What can he possibly do, magic-less and ignorant, stumbling forth like a blind cow? He has never felt more inept and inferior, no matter how much everyone keeps referring to him as the great King Arthur, a valiant warrior with a great destiny. A great destiny here of all places.

It's infuriating, all of it. Not to mention that every time he sees flashes of Merlin's life on even the tiniest surfaces of water, his gut clenches tightly, grappling with so many unnameable emotions he can hardly breathe through his frustration and heartache.

Some leader of gods and fairies — and he can't even imagine what the bloody else — he is shaping up to be.

Crashing through the underbrush, vines slinking around his calves entreatingly, he goes on blindly, out of ideas and certainly out of help. So much for the aid of the Nine Sisters of Avalon, he thinks sourly.

Eventually, with the sun having made at least a quarter turn in the sky — not that that means a damn thing about the passage of time anymore — he sees a large, shallow pool ahead surrounded by a small glade and decides to rest there. He could use a break in the cool shade he supposes, although he's noticed that no matter how much effort he exerts here, he never truly becomes tired, not in the way he used to.

He's not sure how to feel about that.

As he flops down in the grass, he suddenly spots someone lying listlessly along the other side; her eyes are unseeing as she stares into nothing, mouth drawn and fingers dragging lightly across the surface of the water. In many ways, she's just as stunning as Moronoe: tall and slim with unnaturally pale skin that reminds him of the moonlight and thick, black hair that falls in careless curls. She doesn't respond to him, however, doesn't move at all in any sort of acknowledgement, only exudes a kind of deep melancholy that makes Arthur incredibly uncomfortable.

_What happened here?_

Eventually he raises his hand and calls out a greeting, but still nothing but the slightest flick of her eyes. He wonders if she's one of the sisters and thinks she must be, if an unbearably strange and sad one.

Well, if she's that uninterested, he'll take a rest as he had planned. Grabbing a handful of grapes from a vine above his head, he sighs against the taste blooming across his tongue. The tales of Avalon were right; there truly is nothing comparable in Camelot.

Considering the somber woman across from him, he feels some sort of kinship with her for reasons he can't fathom. So he asks kindly, "Would you like some? Or is there something nearby I can bring you?"

He's not sure why he does, but it seems right to ask. The pervasive sadness of this place makes him want to do something to ease her pain, even a little.

Head turned slightly, she looks into him, through him for an unbearably long time, eyes dark and intense. Some time later, she gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head, staring off again into nothing.

When he hears her hoarse whisper, he startles. "You may rest here awhile; the Sidhe would not dare to intrude upon this place. If you go along the path to the east you will come upon a high peak at the second mountain you pass. Gwyn ap Nudd rests there and it is with him that you will meet your fate. Your story is writ in the bones of the world, as old as all the ancient gods before you. I have seen it and I see all."

Uneasily, he thanks her, but no matter how much he prods, she does not speak again, so he gazes into the pond, chewing mindlessly on more grapes. They may be the most fragrant grapes he has ever come across, but nothing of this world could ever really bring him joy (a traitorous voice in the back of his mind whispers, _At least not without Merlin there to share it with_ , and he ignores it, again, and doesn't dwell on how after a decade with Merlin at his side, he's never realised how much he never wants to live without him as he does now).

As if thinking of him alone can summon his presence, he sees Merlin once again in the water and it must be soon after his death because he's curled up with his mother in her house in Ealdor, great tracks of tears sliding down his face.

Throwing the remaining grapes viciously at the image, he thinks, _I'm coming for you, Merlin, I swear_.

He stands up and walks around the pond to bend down next to the Goddess and take her hand, murmuring, "I don't know what grieves you so, or why you decided to help me, but thank you."

Lifting her thin body with great pain, she kisses his cheek softly and sighs, "It has been a long, long time since anyone in these lands has offered me kindness with no expectation of anything in return."

He lets her lie back down in peace and smiles quietly to himself, before winding his way down the eastern path.

_Good luck, King Arthur_ , he hears whip in the wind behind him, ruffling his hair.

—

Dusk is growing strong around him, stronger than it ever has before. As he walks forward, suddenly he can see, truly see the other world, the human one. His world, bleeding into this one. _Beltane_. Freya had mentioned that the barrier between the worlds can thin almost completely at Beltane.

And Merlin is there, young again, but with guarded, tired eyes, mouth pinched at the corners. Gods, it must be so far in the future; the world looks so different around him, in ways that Arthur would have never been able to imagine. To see so much loneliness on him pierces Arthur deeply. 

Merlin, his Merlin, left alone for so very, very long. Centuries probably. The ground he walks on is hard and grey and almost glitters in the fading sunlight and Arthur can nearly hear the strange, terrible noises of the giant contraptions that whizz by. Shocked to a standstill he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself.

His clothes are just as strange: a tight, black hat pulled over his ears and an even tighter shirt which molds to his body, sleeves cut off abnormally short. But despite all that, Arthur thinks he is still the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

In that moment he swears to himself that he will do whatever it takes to prevent this future from coming to pass; he will not leave Merlin waiting through century upon century for his return. He will find that goddamn branch and leave this world and bring Merlin back with him if it is the last thing he does.

He chooses to ignore the fact that having not really died the first time around, he doesn't seem likely to have a last time for anything, if ever. With a shudder, he ignores the image of the goddess lying by her pool of water, listless in her immortality. That won't happen to him. To them. They won't let it.

Walking slowly up to Merlin, he is nearly as solid and real as Arthur last saw him in the flesh and his heart pounds, desperate to reach out and grasp him, rip him into the world where he belongs. The one where he never leaves Arthur's side.

Arthur reaches out, tries to stroke his cheek gently, and he swears he can almost feel something, as if Merlin is really there.

Unfocused and unseeing, Merlin’s blue, blue eyes flicker around, almost like he is looking for him, knows Arthur is there even though he can’t see him.

“Arthur?” he whispers hoarsely, tears gathering in frustration. “I— I don’t understand. Are you—”

Choking, Arthur rushes forward and tries to kiss him.

And for one beautiful, blinding second, he can feel the fullness of Merlin’s lips, parting in shock, against his own.

And then the image fades and Arthur stumbles forward, alone.

 

III

 

Climbing up the mountain, Arthur takes a determined breath.

He'd never really imagined there would be a day where he'd be facing down a god and demanding his kingdom. 

At the top, he finds a dark and gloomy old man who glares foully at his approach.

“Found me already, have you?”

Arthur swallows against the boom that his voice produces, the kind that can shake someone to the core. “A lady lying by the pool in the grove told me where I could find you.”

“Ah, Tyronoe, she _would_ know where I've hidden myself. Hasn’t spoken to anyone in centuries though, not since her son was taken in payment. Even I often wonder what she sees; the gift is strong in her,” Gwyn ap Nudd muses thoughtfully, still unmoved from his throne of rock on the high peak.

Arthur growls, “In _payment_?”

“Yes, boy, in payment. What would you know about the justice of the gods? Everything has a price.”

“I know what fairness and justice are, and it is never to be found in taking someone’s child.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “You know nothing. You come here seeking to overthrow me, as if you know what it takes to rule this world. Magic is fading from Albion and every day we grow farther and farther apart. Other than some whispered legends, belief in us is waning and we will wane with it. And you think you can lead Avalon through this?

"Even the Nine Sisters don't truly believe in me anymore. How could they? When was the last time any of them saw me, or even thought to seek me out. No, I am but a shade of what I once was. And you, you are only a tiny sapling compared to what you shall become. But you do not have the power yet that you need.

“Some day you are destined to rule with Emrys by your side and you will be the ones to lead Albion in its greatest time of need. You will fade from memory until you're just a legend of a man, a king, no accounting for who you truly are. But one day when the people need you most, you will return to them and bring magic and hope to them again. And they will finally remember. But that time is a long while from now."

Gathering himself up, Arthur declares, "I cannot pretend to understand the great destiny that everyone seems convinced I have, but I can say with full confidence that if you can no longer even pretend to have any interest in the lives of those you are supposed to protect — if you cannot summon anything but ambivalence in the sight of what the Sidhe are planning — I _will_. I will always fight to protect the innocent; I may not know much, but I know who I am."

Arthur's chest tightens because he understands, he does, the absolute weariness that a crown can bring. He cannot begin to imagine how that must feel after century upon century and he swallows and raises his chin against the thought that that is precisely what he's signing up for.

But he is no coward and will never step down from whatever responsibility is thrust upon him.

And looking upon this god in his solitude and loneliness he thinks that, maybe, if his destiny really is to rule with Merlin always by his side, he will be able to make a space for his own happiness. He knows he's more than willing to face that fate.

There are worse things than to be smiled at with a huge grin and crinkly eyes every day. Even if utterly impossibly goddesses and fairies will insist on making nuisances of themselves for the rest of eternity.

“Forget the Sidhe, they are but meddlesome fools. I may be unbearably old and weakened, but you are not ready to challenge me. Come back in a century.”

Arthur straightens his spine and grips Excalibur’s hilt in his hand, saying firmly, “No. I will protect my people.”

Sighing, Gwyn ap Nudd straightens up, enormous and imposing with a dark, terrible face made of shadows, and his feet rock the earth. “So be it.”

Everything goes still and silent around them, fading into a dull grey, and Arthur narrows his eyes.

“Yes, boy, even the world stops when gods duel.”

Arthur snarls, “I’m no god.”

A laughing smirk mocks him in reply. “You will be or you’ll be well and truly dead by the end of this day.”

And with that he sends a boulder hurtling through the air, Arthur barely having the time to draw Excalibur and deflect it with a swing.

Feeling everything pulse within him, Arthur centers himself and realises that he’s connected to the ground and the sky, the whole world around him, in a way he never has been before.

Excalibur is glowing in his hands and he knows in that instant with unbelievable certainty that he can do this.

Boulders and hail and too many other things for him to see fly at him viciously, but Excalibur is singing and he is faster, faster than the wind, flying and ducking through, coming more into his power with every breath.

It seems like Gwyn ap Nudd is calling the full wrath of Avalon down upon him; but he is a vanishing god, lacking any belief and conviction and Excalibur swings true and faithful, signaling the dawn of a new era.

In the end it's as simple as a straight thrust through the chest, pushed by the whispers of the wind itself, and Gwyn ap Nudd falls.

Choking laughter fills his lungs and blood trickles down his chin, his eyes growing more distant by the second.

With a wry grin, he murmurs, “All hail, King Arthur,” and lies still.

As Arthur goes to shut his eyes, however, the body in front of him begins to crumble into a petrified, man-shaped mound of rock and dust and splits down the center with a large, gleaming branch unfurling from within, golden, glittering apples ripening amongst the silver leaves.

It’s his. It’s all his.

When he gently grasps the branch, light-weight and as natural in his hands, as _right_ , as Excalibur, he feels something immense and immovable settle within him. And he thinks, _This must be what it feels like to be a god_.

But then he thinks of Merlin and puts all his other thoughts away.

—

It turns out that once he has the branch gripped in his hands, moving between the worlds is as easy as desire. Not wanting to take any chances with the timing though, he reaches within to the burgeoning vastness that has become his to command and demands to go to Merlin not long after his death.

So he steps forward into a small hut, filled with vials and potions and the smell of a well-used hearth, but most of all, filled with Merlin, hair longer and even more unkempt where it curls across his forehead, puttering about and humming to himself.

Smiling fondly, he thinks that those big ears are more beautiful than any goddess could ever hope to be.

When Merlin turns, he gasps and freezes, the glass bottle in his hands crashing to the floor.

“Ar— Arthur?”

And he sounds so wrecked and unsure and devastated and hopeful all at once that Arthur can no more stop himself from throwing his arms around him and squeezing tight, while nosing desperately into the hair against his neck, than he can stop the sun from rising.

On second thought, he wonders if they _could_ stop the sun and files that quickly under ‘things to ask Merlin, but which should never actually be done’.

“Oh, Gods, Arthur, you’ve come back, you’ve finally come back,” he whispers and Arthur pretends not to notice the tears rubbing off on his cheek. Or the fogginess clouding his own.

“Of course I came back. I couldn’t just leave you behind, could I? You’re bound to get into all sorts of trouble without me to watch over you. And who else is going to polish Excalibur?”

Merlin snorts and chokes a bit on his own spit, finally pulling back to look at Arthur’s face. “Prat.” He beams and even with puffy eyes and red, angry tracks down his face, Arthur has never wanted him more. _His_ Merlin.

“How long have I been gone?” he asks warily, heart racing in fear that he got it all wrong, that he left Merlin alone for too long.

Merlin smiles sadly. “Almost three-quarters of a century.”

Laughing and probably looking a bit unhinged, Arthur decides that he has the rest of eternity to make it up to him.

“Close enough. Better than ten.”

Before Merlin can even form a response, he pulls him close again, one hand spread firmly along his lower back and the other raking through his hair, and finally, _finally_ kisses him with no intention of ever letting go.

He did kill a god for this, after all.

Speaking of gods— “I should probably warn you, I’m going to need to drag you back to Avalon with me, because we might be waging war on the Sidhe. And I might have become a god, somehow. It’s all rather confusing,” he groans out between kisses, punctuating his words with nips and licks to Merlin’s long neck, and, _oh_ , how had he ever allowed himself to go so long without this. Without Merlin whimpering and sighing, shivering up against him, as he breathes along his ear.

Suddenly Merlin stiffens and grips Arthur’s face between his hands, shaking him a bit. “A _god_?” He gapes, eyes wide, but then his mouth is back, full lips insistent against his own as if he can’t help himself, can’t bear to be apart for even that long.

Arthur smiles and rests his forehead against Merlin's, breathing him in. “We have the rest of eternity to figure it out.”


End file.
